"Look away, son."
William didn't.
His father's voice was trembling, but William's eyes stayed locked on the platform ahead, on the two men forced to their knees. His father—Jude—and his older brother, Marcus, their hands bound behind their backs, blood already soaking into the sand beneath them. The sun above was cruel and bright. Too bright for a day like this.
The crowd stood in silence. Not mourning. Not protesting. Just watching.
William's fingers dug into the wooden fence he was hiding behind, splinters cutting into his skin. His heart was beating so hard he could barely hear the guard barking orders.
"On the King's command," the soldier announced. "Justice will be served."
Justice? William wanted to scream. What justice?
Jude raised his head slowly, blood on his lip. "You still watching, Will?"
William bit down hard on his lip. He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
"Good," his father smiled, even with a broken jaw. "Then you'll remember this."
Marcus's voice cracked. "Don't let them win."
"Silence!" the soldier barked, slamming the hilt of his sword against Marcus's neck. Marcus coughed, his head falling forward.
William's breath caught.
Then came the sound of boots. Heavy. Sharp.
King Russel.
The king walked slowly across the platform like he owned the sky. Black robes, silver crown, and a smirk carved into his face like a wound. He raised one hand, and the crowd dropped to their knees.
Except William. He stayed low, hidden in the shadows of the alley, rage burning his spine.
"Traitors," Russel's voice boomed. "You thought you could defy the crown. You thought your little rebellion would rise."
Jude raised his head again, spitting blood into the dirt. "We didn't think—we knew."
Russel paused. His lips twitched, amused.
"Then you'll die knowing how wrong you were."
The blade gleamed in the sun. Time slowed.
William wanted to leap forward, to scream, to run onto that platform and—
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Strong. Pulling him back.
"Don't," the voice whispered. "Not now. You die here, too."
William shook it off. "That's my family!"
"You want revenge? Then survive."
The words barely reached his ears.
The sword dropped.
One clean slice.
Marcus's head hit the platform with a soft thud. It rolled, dust rising around it.
William didn't breathe.
Another swing.
Jude's body slumped forward.
Two pools of red spread through the wooden boards.
William fell to his knees behind the fence, bile rising in his throat.
"Good people of Westham!" Russel raised his arms like a priest blessing sin. "This is what happens when loyalty breaks!"
The crowd murmured. Numb. No one clapped. No one cried.
William's vision blurred, his hands shaking, mouth open in a silent scream. But deep under the pain, something else took root.
Hate.
The king turned his back and walked off the platform, robes trailing behind him like black fire.
The bodies were left there. No burial. No dignity.
Just blood in the dust.
William rose slowly. He could still hear Marcus's last words: Don't let them win.
"Come," the stranger urged behind him. "We have to move."
William turned to face the man who had stopped him. A face hidden beneath a hood, but the eyes burned sharp.
"Who are you?" William growled.
"Someone who owes your father a debt."
William stared for another second. Then nodded.
"Then let's make them pay."
They ran.
Through alleyways reeking of smoke and rot, over walls, down twisted paths the soldiers didn't know. Every heartbeat was a drum of war. Every step away from the square felt like betrayal—and survival.
They stopped deep in the woods, far beyond the city's screaming gates. The sky bled orange. The silence roared louder than the crowd.
William sank to his knees.
The man knelt beside him.
"You saw what Russel did."
William didn't answer.
"You felt it."
Still nothing.
"You want him to bleed?"
William looked up. His voice shook. "I want him to burn."
The man smiled grimly. "Then you're ready."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to William.
William hesitated, then opened it.
A blade.
Old. Heavy. The hilt was cracked, the steel blackened by time—but it pulsed in William's hands like it was alive.
"Your father wanted you to have it. Said it belonged to the real king of Tazan."
William's fingers curled around it.
It fit.
"Why now?" William asked, voice raw.
"Because the war's coming," the man said. "And you're not just a boy anymore."
William's knuckles turned white. The blade pulsed again.
He stood slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Then I'll end it."
He took one last look toward the city where his blood still soaked the ground.
One day, he would return. Not as a son.
But as vengeance.
The man pulled back his hood.
William froze.
It was Robert Bruce—the king's right hand.
"Let's start by killing your father's killer," Bruce said, eyes like storms.
And William's world tilted.
William is now face-to-face with the man who once served King Russel—the very man who could betray him... or bring the kingdom to its knees.